The Inquisition IV

[Brother-Sergeant Bohemond]

Im getting my call in early, knowing the nature of your stories ;)

[Lady_Canoness]

*part 3*

 

At the tower’s base, forty-three stories below the penthouse suite, the McLauslan Chamber-Room was operating at maybe an eighth of its late-night capacity, and, as the turnstiles looped the warbling music back to the beginning for the sixth time, the few remaining servers saw to the handful of patrons scattered around the room. As a restaurant-bar it was second rate, turning a steady enough trade to keep it afloat and little more, which catered to off-worlders, shift-workers, and people who had little else to do in their after-hours. It was quiet and the kitchen had closed hours earlier, though a steady stream of liquor, spirits, and salted snacks kept the few people remaining rooted to their seats.

In the middle of the room, pushing all the other patrons away to far corners with their mere boisterous presence, were the only people making any real noise in the McLauslan at this late hour. They were a group of three, sitting around a table that could have easily seated twice that number, slapping cards onto the burgundy tablecloth in an amiable fashion.

 

“Dubs,” Lee flopped down a pair of cards face up. To his left, Stone groaned as he folded and reached for his drink. Lee grinned; the devilish gesture splitting his creased face as he bared his teeth. To his right, Meredith screwed up her brow and peered at the cards on the table before ducking back behind her hand of five cards and carefully selecting three of their number.

“I have…” she began, scrunching up her round face as she pulled the cards out one-by-one and placed them on the table, “… the commons’ court.”

Lee was still grinning. Stone looked appalled.

“You’re crazy,” he said as blunt as a slap to the face.

“No…” Meredith corrected him, pushing the cards one at a time into the centre of the table with her stubby index finger, “I’m sexy.” She proceeded to scoop her winnings back towards her edge of the table with the concentration of reeling in a fish.

Stone disposition didn’t change any: “You’re drunk.”

Liking her lips, the doc shook her head. “Nope…” she replied, her eyes on her pile of winnings. “If I was drunk, you’d be sexy too… but yer not.”

Lee Normandy reached for his drink and hid his growing smile behind the bottle. Meredith was so far gone that anyone else would likely have fallen under the table by now, but the stout little woman was tough and had serious guts.

Five-foot-nothing but built like a boulder, Meredith was the kind of gal that could haul a man twice her size off his feet and charge across the room with him on over her shoulder – in fact it was something she often threatened to do – but what she lacked in looks she made up for with wit, and over the months he’d known her Lee found himself liking her more and more every day. She was not sexy, not even in the slightest, but she was smart and an accomplished doctor – something that more than made up for it in a round-about way.

Stone grunted and leaned back in his seat. “Fine,” he said in a warning way, “but don’t be surprised when the flyboy takes you down next hand.” He looked at Lee as if to confirm his suspicion. The pilot did his best to look blank.

“He won’t,” the doc responded, now fiddling with her winnings that Lee planned to reclaim very soon, “because he can’t…”

Her voice trailed off.

Stone rolled his eyes. He was a Mordian, and that pretty much said it all. Ex-Iron Guard, he was built big and tall with a face like one of those grim war statues. He wasn’t a bad guy – Godwyn had picked him up after all – but he had this look about him that said ‘don’t piss me off!’ – it was something Lee made sure not to do. He carried a snub-barrelled shotgun for fighting in close quarters that he called ‘Jack’ and a mean-looking tribal knife with a serrated edge that he called ‘Ripper’ – both of which looked like they had stories to tell. Stone would practice with them in a crude brawling fashion that looked about as refined as gutting an ork from behind while falling down a mountain. Scary stuff.

Lee went back to his cards.

Taking a swig from his bottle, Stone dealt the next hand; tossing down five cards for the others and himself. Meredith was drinking as well. Her eyes looked unfocused and bleary: definitely drunk.

“What is this anyway?” Stone asked at large, as if either of them would have a satisfying answer as he twisted the bottle in his large hand to look at the label.

“It’s beer…” Meredith slurred back at him, leaning her elbows on the table, “the kind that you drink when you’re bored…”

Lee bobbed his head in rapid agreement; “Thin’ she’s righ’” he whispered like passing a secret, but Stone only looked annoyed:

“Really? I’m glad you told me. I never would have found that out for myself.”

Actually, Lee wouldn’t have been surprised if he hadn’t. Beer, in his experience, didn’t come like this – and Lee Normandy had plenty of experience to draw on.

Inquisitor Godwyn’s personal shuttle pilot, Lee had been a smuggler in his younger days and had seen his fair share of ‘adventures’ – most of which involved alcohol – but now that he was retired and a legitimate pilot with no dirty dealings he’d gotten used to having adventures of another kind – most of which involved alcohol. He was getting older though, and while you couldn’t tell by looking at him he was likely twice the age of the Mordian and could even give Meredith a run for her money. Lee was slowing down – that much he knew. Still, he liked his cards, liked his birds, and liked his drinks; in that regard he wasn’t slowing down at all, and he knew enough about his beers to know what they weren’t. For starters, they weren’t typically spicy. Or red. Or, for that matter, served hot. Yet here it was: a spicy, hot, red beer, and it was surprisingly good. All that rain keeping people indoors yielded some good results. It made Lee wonder what else the people of Acre were good at indoors. He hoped he had time to find out.

To his left, Iliad Stone shifted in his seat. He had a great poker-face – pretty much because his face never seemed to have any expression other than ‘pissed off’ – but it didn’t extend to the rest of his body. Lee Normandy could read him like a book. For a soldier, he was a bad card player.

Inebriated, Meredith was a much harder study, and to his right she fumbled around with her cards like she was molesting something in her imagination. It was funny, all things considered, but not funny enough to take him off his game.

“Dubs,” Lee announced, slapping down a pair of cards face up.

Stone shifted again, then played his hand without comment.

Looking over, Lee glanced between the Mordian and the cards: it was a good hand, but played too early – he was clearly hoping for an early win.

Meredith belched like she’d been through a war, catching both the attention of the Mordian and the pilot, wobbled in her seat like she might fall off, then leaned her bosom onto the table and plucked three cards from her hand. “I have…” she said with a flurry of movement, “a trip-triple…”

She belched something that sounded more substantial than gas, Stone still looked pissed off, but Lee didn’t waste any more time before springing his trap.

“Th’ Caps!” he exclaimed with a triumphant grin, throwing down three face cards and chuckling.

Stone spat a curse word and threw his cards onto the table face down – he was done. That left only Meredith. She wobbled a little more as Lee watched her, and licked her lips;

“Lee…” she said his name softly like she was trying to coax a naughty child into paying attention, “why don’t we make a deal… I can…” she paused. She had to think about it.

Lee helped her out by reaching for the pile of winnings. “Ya c’n give m’ these fer starts.” He nudged her arm out of the way and started pulling them over one-by-one while she looked on like a sad puppy.

Stone sighed and sank deeper into his seat. Even relaxed, he still looked pissed off. A brief chirping interrupted his momentary silence and he plucked a small comm. link from his pocket.

“She wants us,” was all he said, and pushed his seat back as he stood up.

Moments later Lee’s comm. chirped as well, as did Meredith’s.

“Duty calls,” the Mordian announced with finality as the trio stood from the table. “Better get up there.”

Lee scooped his winnings into his pockets and gave the stout doctor a conciliatory slap on the back as he followed Stone and her out of the restaurant.

 

* *

 

Lee came back to the penthouse twenty crowns richer, not that it made any real difference; Acre didn’t use Imperial currency, meaning that all he’d actually won was twenty crowns of more clutter.

“Ay! Max!” Lee whistled as he followed the others through the front door.

Maxwell Constantine, the fair-haired kid the Inquisitor had brought on for logistics, was leaning over a dining table that had been covered with maps and other papers. He looked up when Lee came in, and the pilot flicked one of the crowns in his direction which he caught in an outstretched hand – tipping a salute in the pilot’s direction before re-immersing himself in whatever it was he’d been doing before the interruption.

Smiling to himself, Lee shook his head as he followed the others further into the cavernous penthouse suite. Max was an alright guy – good-natured – and Lee liked him. He was still just a kid though, with a fresh face and golden hair. Most of his time was spent absorbed in work, as if he thought his toil actually made a difference, and though Lee had tried on more than one occasion to get the kid out of his shell Constantine never took him up on it. Too much of an idealist, he reckoned, scratching at the stubble on his leathery face, probably thinks I’m something that crawled out of the gutter – he chuckled, causing Meredith to turn her head lazily in his direction – probably right.

 

Inquisitor Cassandra Godwyn was in the suite’s kitchen when they found her. Like everything else in the penthouse it was massive and impeccably clean – a result of the suite being empty for months before the Inquisitor requisitioned it for her base of operations – though it was gradually starting to show signs of use as Godwyn spread pieces of parchment, dataslates, and other assorted bits of information that Lee couldn’t bother to concern himself with around the countertops. Constantine had even plugged in the automated caffeine maker – he was obsessed with the stuff.

The Inquisitor looked up as her three agents entered the room – her piercing blue eyes scrutinizing each of them in turn.

Lee had known Godwyn since her beginning as an Inquisitor thirty-or-forty years ago, and had the dubious honour of being her longest serving agent – something that Lee was not certain he liked. It had started out well enough when Lee had served with her mentor as the pilot of his personal shuttle, Meridian, and, when shuttle was passed on to Godwyn, Lee went with it as part of the package. The Inquisitor was younger then – pretty much a girl as young and idealistic as Constantine was now – but time had changed her, and the young determined woman had turned into someone who was harder, colder and more severe. They’d been companions once – friends even – back in her younger years, but that feeling was long gone, if anything, to be replaced by what almost felt like resentment – a resentment that deep down Lee knew he had earned. He didn’t know the details of what had happened after Penumbra when she had been recalled by the Inquisition, but he hadn’t been there, and now every time she looked in his eyes he was reminded of that fact: that he hadn’t been there.

She was looking into his eyes right now.

He looked away.

“Meredith, I need an analysis on this” Godwyn stated without preamble, pushing a small containment canister in the doctor’s direction across the island countertop.

The stout woman blinked at it dumbly, not moving towards the canister and leaving it sitting awkwardly in between them. “What is it?” she finally asked only after everyone’s eyes had moved from the canister to her.

“That’s what I want you to find out,” Godwyn replied while both Lee and Stone looked at the doctor anxiously – though the Mordian still managed to look more pissed off than anything.

Meredith blinked again, either drunk or daft. “Right!” she blurted out after a painfully long silence and snatched the canister off the counter before racing from the room, leaving Stone and Lee to make silent apologies on her behalf.

“Iliad,” the Inquisitor addressed the soldier by his first name once Meredith had left the room. Stone stood to attention with his eyes straight forward – a result of the Mordian’s training no doubt. “Find Constantine and compile a requisition list for the weapons we’ll need.”

Stone didn’t salute – it had taken time, but Godwyn had managed to break him of that habit – and turned sharply on his heel without uttering a word. He would do as he was told.

Lee was soon alone in the kitchen with Godwyn. He didn’t say anything, and she didn’t look up at him from her work.

“Make sure that Meridian is ready to fly on a minute’s notice from now on,” she told him.

“Right, boss,” he replied, and gratefully left the room.

 

* *

 

“Mister Constantine!”

Maxwell Constantine looked up from his work at the sound of Mordian’s parade-ground voice and saw Stone striding towards him like he was on a mission. Typical Guard. The navy man grinned lightly and set aside the dataslates he had been holding to give Stone his undivided attention.

Stone had likely never held a commission, meaning that Constantine outranked him, but even so there was something about the Mordian that demanded respect almost as if it were a physical property of the man himself. It had probably been drilled into him in the Guard, but by now he had made it his own so much so that he couldn’t put it down. He wasn’t always straight-faced and serious, but that didn’t mean that Constantine would ever stop taking him that way.

“What’s on your mind, Iliad?” the younger man asked, standing up straight as the ex-guardsman marched up to him. Stone was taller than he was, broader too, and likely had him by a good eighty pounds of raw muscle.

“We’re to compile a requisition list for the weapons we’ll need,” Stone informed him in such a way that made Constantine think that he was merely repeating what he’d been told.

“I see…” he nodded with a slight frown.

Stone’s face seemed to harden – if that was even possible for a man who already looked like a statue. “Then lets get to it!” he barked, the perfect tone of voice to jump Constantine into instant action. “Get to the armoury!”

“Yes, right, of course…” Constantine nodded, suddenly squirrelly under the bigger man’s gaze as he led the way to where the weapons were kept. Stone may be blunt, but he wasn’t stupid.

 

The armoury had taken over what was at one point the on-suite to the master bedroom. It was the most defensible position, so went the logic, and was far enough away from any points of entry into the penthouse that the Inquisitor and her team could likely mounted a defence before any potential attacker managed to deprive them of their weapons and ammunition. In theory.

In practice, there weren’t that many weapons to deprive an attacker of.

Godwyn kept her sidearm with her at all times, as did Stone, and the twins were never parted from any of their weaponry. The only things there were kept there were items that were too heavy to be carried around all the time. Stone left his heavy-duty riot-pattern shotgun leaning against a wall, as well as the carapace armour he’d taken to wearing, but aside from a few boxes of ammunition stacked in the shower there wasn’t much else to be had. The only other item belonged to Godwyn, and it was this item that took up the most space. Opening the door to the master bathroom with Stone behind him, Constantine always liked looking at it.

Power armour.

Standing to one side so that you could see its reflection in the mirror as soon as you entered the room, a single suit of massive coal-black coloured power armour waited in silence to be used. The mark of the Inquisition emblazoned across its chest and the mark of numerous battles patched along its rough metal surface, the suit seemed Constantine almost like a religious idol – the very pinnacle of what it meant to be doing the Emperor’s work. It was the stuff of heroes and legends – what warriors were made of. Other than the mark of the Inquisition the armour bore no icons and showed the signs of numerous upgrades and improvements – making it all the more grim and purposeful in Maxwell’s mind: simple, yet powerful. He’d never seen the Inquisitor wear it, yet its design was not something he recognized, and in the few times he’d studied it he’d noticed that its power source was stored internally – not like most of the armours he’d seen in the picts or vid logs. Could be that it was an archaic model, in which case the suit was a relic as well as a potent tool in battle.

“C’mon son – too much time daydreaming.” Stone jerked him back to the here and now with a light cuff on the shoulder.

“Right,” Constantine shook his head clear as the Mordian walked passed him and stood in the middle of the master bathroom; “where do we start?”

Stone wasn’t about to answer: he’d found a richly decorated sabre carefully sheathed and tucked away behind a shower curtain. He picked it up between three fingers.

“This belong to you?” he asked.

Constantine nodded; it did, and he was actually quite good with it.

“Then you keep it with you,” Stone tossed it to him so that he caught it in one hand. “You’ll want something like that at your side from now on.”

It was pointless to argue, so Constantine fastened the sabre to his side and was done with, though from the look in Stone’s eyes the Mordian was questioning why the navy man would hide such a weapon away.

“Where do we start?” Constantine repeated himself.

Stone swivelled on his feet and looked around the room with pursed lips – judging it. “Flack armour,” he announced, “five sets, type-two vanguard pattern, full trappings. Got that?”

More than familiar with placing requisition orders, Constantine was already jotting everything down on a dataslate, though he had a question on his lips before he was done: “Why flack armour?” he asked even though he was unfamiliar with the type-two vanguard pattern. “There is better protection available.”

“You ever worn heavy armour?” Stone asked without turning to face him.

Constantine shook his head. “I have not, no.”

“Then imagine your clothes weighing an extra fifty pounds, and try moving and fighting in them. Flack armour weighs less than half-that. For people like yourself, heavy armour would only get you killed faster.”

It wasn’t meant as an insult and the young man didn’t take it as such; it was fact – pure and simple.

“Okay…” Stone continued, his eyes staring off into his imagination as he thought of all the weapons he could fit inside the spacious bathroom, “get us ten lascarbines. Any pattern will do, but make sure they have folding stocks and bayonet lugs. Get twenty mags for each, and order a recharge bay just to be safe.”

“Is all that really necessary?”

“Son, this is the Inquisition you’re working for. We can order as much as we damn please.”

Constantine shrugged without comment. The logistician that he was though Stone was fooling himself by thinking that he was drawing on a limitless supply to build his arsenal. Many planets could just barely equip all their troops with weapons, and needlessly over-ordering could often cost lives in times of crisis – and since when did the Inquisition go anywhere if there wasn’t an impending crisis?

“Forty frag grenades and ten krak. Ten smoke grenades too.”

“You realize that we have shock troops at our disposal?”

“And you realize that we can’t always count on the cavalry coming over the hill? Let’s see, you better add some dark-light goggles to that as well.”

Constantine continued to note everything down without issue. It seemed like Stone was trying to outfit his dream commando unit.

“We’ll need a couple range rifles as well,” the Mordian continued, talking as much to himself as he was the young man taking notes. “Valiant pattern lasguns should do the trick, so two of those.”

“Long lasguns are available,” Constantine noted as an aside, but Stone shook his head:

“No-one on our team is a trained sniper. Gun like that would be a waste of our time.”

“Indeed,” the logistics man agreed though he really wasn’t an expert in land warfare tactics. He stroked his moustache, then looked up towards where the Mordian was still visualising where he’d store all his weapons in the bathroom. “If I may, Iliad, what was your specialty in the Guard?”

“Armour,” Stone answered without hesitation, not seeming to mind as the younger man pried about his past, “twenty-seven years in total. I’ve been in the tanks of the Iron Guard since I started shaving.”

“Oh…” Maxwell managed, not knowing what to say in response.

Stone continued: “Seen a lot of action. A lot of stuff you probably wouldn’t believe. It’s different on the ground compared to how you navy boys fight. A lot less between you and the enemy.”

“I’m sure of it,” Constantine agreed, now wishing that he hadn’t brought up the subject: all he’d wanted to know was if Stone knew what he was talking about.

The Mordian grinned. “Like hell you are,” he said in a quasi-friendly way. “One thing you’ll notice fighting with your feet on the ground is how much of a difference one bullet can make. So you bring as many bullets as you can, shoot them as fast as you can, and hope that one of them makes that difference for you.”

“Right,” Constantine was looking for a quick way out of the conversation, “anything else you want to add to the list?”

Stone opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by a chirping sound from the comm. link in Maxwell’s pocket.

“Excuse me,” he dug it out and took a look – his heart instantly leaping as he saw it was a priority message.

“Better tell her,” Stone read the look on his face, “I’ll let you know if I think of anything else we need by the time you get back.”

 

Constantine was out of the master bedroom in a flash and was marching to down the hall to the living room in the time it would have taken most people to string two thoughts together.

Communication was his business, and at the Inquisitor’s instruction he had patched himself into every channel to and from the penthouse. Some might consider that a priveledge – a sign of trust that extended further beyond the call of duty – but any trust there was didn’t run that deep as all the information was encrypted and Constantine had been entrusted only the most rudimentary of ciphers. He would carry the message even though he had no inclination of what it was – something that reminded him of one of the grand theatrical performances he’d seen while at the academy, in which the dutiful messenger bears the letter of his own execution to the treasonous governor.

“Inquisitor!” he called out to Godwyn when he saw her preceding him into the living room. “I have…”

She stopped him.

“I already know,” she said plainly. “Keep doing as I have instructed you. I will deal with this myself.”

Dismissed, Constantine turned to go, but not before noticing the twins waiting in the room beyond. The Inquisitor signalled to them, and the lithe giants followed her from suite.

Walking back in the direction of the master bedroom Constantine thought nothing of it: who was he, after all, to question an Inquisitor?

[Aqui]

A good start to an otherwise mediocre Saturday morning :)

[Taranis]

A good start to an otherwise mediocre Saturday morning ^_^

 

It sure is. It's great to learn more of the new guys. The doctor doesn't seem as exotic as the late herbalist. :P

I'm sure looking forward to meeting the new tech wizard.....

 

Great story so far! Setting the foundation for another great tale. ;)

[Lady_Canoness]

Glad it's shaping up well for you guys ;)

 

Still have one more character to introduce, so we'll see how it falls together ^_^

[Brother-Sergeant Bohemond]

im liking it ;)

[Lady_Canoness]

I regret that I have had less and less time to write recently (real life has a nasty way of catching you unprepared to write) though know I feel things are *starting* to settle back into a place where I can write again. This part has been in the works for WEEKS (no joke) so you can imagine how baddly I want to get it out!

 

The story continues, but we still have one more 'mystery' character who has yet to be seen... any bets on who/what it is? :)

 

*Part 4*

 

The message was from Tanya von Draken and marked as vermillion priority – requiring immediate action – though the communiqué was notably brief, detailing only a set of coordinates and a time accompanied by a single word: ‘rendezvous’.

 

“Tanner!” Godwyn summoned the cadet chauffer with a snap in her voice as she strode into the garage.

Already waiting with the Inquisitor’s car, the junior Arbites officer jumped to attention. “Ma’am,” he saluted, his voice echoing off the bare concrete, and immediately moved to open the passenger-side door.

Seconded into the service of the Inquisition, the smartly uniformed Arbites cadet was at the Inquisitor’s disposal at any hour of the day or night, and when he wasn’t behind the wheel of Godwyn’s motorcar he was resting in the servants’ quarters a floor above which had been turned over for his use. According to his file, he was nineteen and was currently serving his second year as a cadet – the second of three years prior to becoming a fledgling Arbites enforcer assigned to foot patrol. Two months earlier, he had petitioned his superiors to serve on an ambassador detail. He got his wish, Godwyn imagined, and if he served her well she would see that was properly rewarded, though for now he had a job to do until such a time that she dismissed him.

“Take me here,” she handed him a dataslate with the coordinates she had been given as she ducked into the car.

He looked at them. “Right away, ma’am,” he replied, returning the slate to the Inquisitor and shutting the door after her, though not before discretely eyeballing the two giants that were going around to the other side of the car. His interest was definitely piqued, but he knew better than to stick his nose where it didn’t belong. Once everyone was aboard, he mounted the cab and the engine started.

In the back passenger compartment, Godwyn sat facing the twin giants, Mercy and Zero. Both were wearing long storm coats that concealed their armour, and their weapons rested across their laps as they slouched down in the leather seats to keep their heads from hitting the ceiling. They were silent as the car started to roll, and looked out the windows on either side as the lights of the underground garage gave way to the rain-washed darkness of the outer city streets. Neither of them asked where they were going or why, but simply sat with an almost meditative calm on their features. Not so for Godwyn, however, and the Inquisitor’s mind already raced behind her blue eyes as she poured over the known of what lay ahead of her.

‘Known unknowns’, they had called them way back in her days at the academy – something one knew that one did not know – as opposed to unknown unknowns, where one did not know that one did not know. Unknowns were abound, but there was no use speculating at the reasoning behind Draken’s message – such knowledge comes with time, not imagination – but the timing of the other Inquisitor’s message was of particular interest to her: they had last seen each other not more than two hours ago – hardly enough time for a new development to emerge from the Witch Hunter’s investigation – meaning that whatever it was that had prompted her to request Godwyn’s presence under the pretext of a vermillion priority message was likely something she had hidden from the Inquisitor the last time they spoke. Full cooperation, it seemed, would take time to achieve.

Godwyn’s attention was brought back to the present when the motorcar’s communication relay chimed several times with an incoming message. Leaning forward in her seat, she flipped a switch to activate a holographic display in the ceiling. Across from her, the assassins looked partially interested as Meredith’s visage appeared floating mid-air.

“Can you hear me, Inquisitor?” the doctor’s head asked in a voice slightly accented in static. Losing interest, Mercy’s violet eyes rolled back out the window.

“Yes. What is it?” Godwyn replied.

The doctor grunted and gave a little cough. “I’ve finished preliminary examinations of that sample you gave me,” she said. “Kind of interesting,” she added with a reflective nod, looking at something off screen.

“What did you find?” the Inquisitor asked.

Meredith coughed again. “Whatever you gave me isn’t human tissue, not even remotely.”

Godwyn lowered her brow. “Not mutation?”

The holograph shook its head. “Nope. Definitely alien. Not a trace of human DNA anywhere in the tissue sample… other than the oil off the hands of whoever packaged it – nice touch that. Literally. If you want anything more than that, though, I’ll need your clearance to cross-examine the sample with archived specimens.”

“How fast can you get it done?”

Meredith shrugged nonchalantly. “With a half-decent astropath and your good word, I’d say that a thorough cross-examination shouldn’t take more than a couple weeks.”

“Another Inquisitor has a Biologis ship in orbit for the same purpose. It will be faster if you use them.”

“With respect, it isn’t actually. The Magos Biologis like to have their fingers into everything. They aren’t efficient, and from what I’ve experience they aren’t always honest either.”

“Noted,” Godwyn commented with a nod. “You have an alternative arrangement?”

The holograph nodded emphatically. “I have a couple back-door contacts at some of the academies in the neighbouring sector. They’ll get it done faster. And quieter,” she added, almost as an afterthought.

The doctor’s plan was satisfactory, Godwyn reasoned, as external sources could provide an edge over von Draken’s investigation, though before the Inquisitor would lend her authority to Meredith’s idea there was one more thing that she needed:

“I want to know if this is alien infiltration above anything else,” Godwyn warned. “Cross-referencing with genestealer or tyranid organisms takes priority. Is that clear?”

“Clear as clear,” her agent replied, “but, Inquisitor… genestealer infiltration will be the first thing the Biologis checks for. If it was genestealer we’d know about it already.”

Godwyn did not share her optimism. “Don’t count on it,” she said, and the holograph disappeared into thin air as the feed was disconnected.

“We are to battle aliens?” Zero was watching the Inquisitor quite intently with her big, golden eyes – a slight downward curve on her lips.

The Inquisitor crossed one leg over the other and sank deeper into her seat, her hands resting in her lap. “Not if we’re lucky,” she said with a note of bitterness.

Zero blinked; her face impassive. Mercy continued to look out the window into the night.

“I beg to the contrary,” the golden-eyed assassin replied in an airy tone. “Every alien felled in the Emperor’s name is a benediction. I would relish the cross of blades.”

The assassins were killers, bred to delight in the moment of death. Godwyn could not doubt their skill at delivering the killing-blow, but she would reserve judgement as to how quickly she would throw her best assets into the fray. Mercy had saved her life numerous times before and in more ways that one. She and her genetic sister were skilled, but not expendable, and Godwyn would not be swayed by a killer’s bloodlust.

“We shall see,” she said in way of conclusion, and Zero said nothing more. Mercy, however, caught her eye and smiled – a gesture the Inquisitor instinctively returned. For now, time was on their side.

 

Minutes later, the sleek arbites motorcar pulled into a shaded side-street and eased to a stop. The rain was pelting down on the canopy and the night was pitch black outside, but Inquisitor Godwyn opened the door and stepped into the street, leaving the twins behind as she closed the door with a simple snap.

Barely visible through the darkness, four bulky armoured vehicles sat idle not more than four yards away. The cab door of the lead vehicle opened once Godwyn had set foot into the street, and a lone figure wrapped in a long storm coat stepped out. When they were close enough, Godwyn recognized the familiar glint of Inquisitor von Draken’s metal jaw.

“You came,” the Witch Hunter said, not extending a hand as the Inquisitors met face to face in the middle of the street – the sound of rain slapping the pavement deafening anyone who might be listening in.

“What is this about?”

Skipping the formalities, Draken cut right to the point: “I have a lead on a location of interest – could be a den for these mutants.”

“Except they are not mutants. You’ve known that for a while.”

“Does it matter what I call them? They all share the same fate in the Emperor’s eyes.”

“It’s alien infiltration,” Godwyn corrected her, nearly shouting over the sound of the falling water. “If my agents can determine that in less than an hour, you’ve known that fact for weeks!”

“I couldn’t care less about what is wrong with these people!” the Witch Hunter retorted. “My only concern is burning them out of their nests and off the face of this world – which is what I am about to do right now. Are you with me?”

She was waiting for a response and Godwyn didn’t leave her waiting long: “Yes, I’m with you.”

“Good,” Draken turned back to her vehicle. “Turn to the channel Omega-thi 22.1. I’ll brief you en route.”

 

Godwyn was already soaked from the rain when she got back into motorcar.

“Follow the convoy,” she instructed the chauffer as the four armour-plated trucks rumbled past them in the street heading in the other direction. Tanner obeyed without a word, and Godwyn adjusted the channel on the motorcar built in comm. system. Across from her, the twins looked on in silence.

+“Cassandra, do you read?”+ von Draken’s voice crackled over the speakers, the sound of rumbling tires and rattling metal audible in the background.

“I hear you,” Godwyn replied.

The Witch Hunter’s convoy consisted of four Centurion pattern trucks; models exclusive to the Arbites on numerous worlds. Designed for urban pacification and interdiction, Centurions were large and brutish vehicles with six-wheels and a twin axel, and afforded few luxuries for the passengers inside. Its onboard comms were inefficient, but passable, making it difficult for Godwyn to detect any particular tone in von Draken’s voice, though she imagined that her counterpart would be withholding all but the most pertinent information in their conversation.

+“Good,”+ the Witch Hunter’s disembodied voice was distorted as it entered Godwyn’s cab, and at times she had to strain to hear it. +“Sources have indicated that this is some kind of leadership figure behind the appearances of these deviants. We’re moving in on it now. It could be the break we need to crack open this investigation.”+

Godwyn was sceptical; “What makes you so sure?” she asked.

+“Interrogation of a recovered deviant pointed to this place.”+

“And you trust that?”

+“This is a lead, Godwyn, and I intend to follow it. Sharing this information with you is a way of cementing our cooperation, if you hadn’t already guessed.”+

She had, but, leaning forward in her seat, the blonde Inquisitor knew that it was always Draken’s way of cementing her dominance. Like a master to his hound, the Witch Hunter was willing to throw her enough scraps to keep her from satiated.

“Are you expecting resistance?” Godwyn continued with her line of questioning.

The Witch Hunter’s growl was apparent even through the static: +“Always.”+

It explained the show of force: Tanya von Draken was never one for subtlety.

“So what is it you need me for?” Fingers arched, Godwyn looked towards the window where the rain poured down in the early morning hours.

+“Isn’t that obvious?”+ the other woman replied. +“You’re here for the ride.”+

 

The Centurions pulled into a dark alleyway not six minutes later and cut the lights, plunging the world outside the windows into darkness. Running off red-lighting inside the cab, Godwyn’s motorcar brought up the rear of the convoy as Tanner eased off the accelerator and brought them gliding up to the tail truck’s bumper before stopping seamlessly and shutting off the engine. Barely visible up ahead, the side doors of the Centurions slid open noiselessly and dark figures stepped out into the night.

Inquisitor Godwyn checked the city schematic plans built into the motorcar’s communication’s interface. They’d stopped in an industrial park, an old decaying part of the city where rust settled in to give everything a ruddy tinge – not that any of it was noticeable at night. According to Arbites intel it was decommissioned as the land was up for sale. House Godwyn had no interest in maintaining it, and apparently no-one else did either. Administratum census records showed that no-one lived there, but then again census records never counted the displaced and disenfranchised underbelly of Imperial society. A street that was empty on paper could be overflowing in actuality.

Tanya von Draken walked along the side of the car and tapped on the window. Godwyn lowered it so that she might speak.

“The target building is right next to us,” the Witch Hunter explained, ducking down beside the open window as rainwater soaked her hair and dripped down her face in rivulets before pooling on her metal chin and dribbling to the ground. “We’ll go inside once I get the all clear.”

She stepped back and Godwyn closed the window after her. Inside, the giants waited in silence. Rain pattering against the glass was the only sound. Draken came back a few moments later and rapped a gloved hand on the window; “It’s time.”

 

Godwyn and the twins trailed Inquisitor von Draken into the target building through a propped open door guarded by two black armoured troopers carrying hellguns and wearing tactical respirators over their faces. Rain drops plunked off their helmets and soaked their fatigues, but neither trooper showed any sign of moving as the Inquisitor passed by, and both were facing outwards to keep a sharp look-out for unwanted eyes. Through the door, they ascended a brief flight of narrow metal steps splashed with water and granular underfoot with dirt to where the Witch Hunter was waiting in the mouth of a large antechamber. She had brought an entourage with her, and six figures in eclectic robes carrying bizarre instruments hummed and hawed back and forth under Draken’s unflinching gaze, though she dismissed them without a word as Godwyn approached.

“Well?” the blonde Inquisitor wanted an update as she turned up her collar against the cold draught of air passing through the massive chamber. It really was quite large, and as her eyes drifted upwards Godwyn could see the walls rising several stories above her head, though the eventual ceiling disappeared into darkness with only streams of falling water to mark the numerous cracks and fissures that opened it to the sky. There was movement along the walls where a series of corroded gantries snaked around the room’s periphery in place of proper flooring. More black armoured troopers moved along these – the beams of the mounted lamp-packs sweeping across the metal at their feet and casting shadows down below.

But there were others as well.

Godwyn squinted to see in the half-darkness:

Faces – scores of faces – and bodies too; cold, weary and desperate, wearing pale faces that stared out from that the shadows. There must have been hundreds of them. Refugees.

“Much as I expected,” Draken grimaced, leaning on the railing of the gantry before them and staring down into the lake of bubbling water that had formed on the ground floor; “a den of deviants.”

She shook her head of black hair as the agents under her command spread out in all directions.

Godwyn would have asked how she could be so sure. The entourage the Witch Hunter had brought with her had spread out amongst the refugees and were doing things with their instruments. Cold and frightened, the gaunt human faces were asking questions. Absorbed in their work, the robed men did not answer.

“Are these the faces of traitors?” Godwyn posed to her counter-part, and again the Witch Hunter shook her head;

“Traitors never look the part,” she replied, her metal jaw clicking against her human teeth as she spoke.

“And what do you intend to do with them?”

“What are you getting at, Godwyn?” she snapped, rounding on the other Inquisitor. Standing back a ways, the twin giants shifted their gaze to the Witch Hunter, though Draken ignored them.

“This is a losing battle, and you know it,” Godwyn replied coolly, standing beside the other Inquisitor and resting her metal forearm against the guardrail. “You keep cutting off the hydra’s heads, and they keep coming back.”

“And you’d recommend?” the Witch Hunter countered, annoyed.

Dropping her tone to keep her words concealed by the falling water, Godwyn paused. “Let them go,” she suggested. “Watch them for a change. You’ll need to know your enemy in order to defeat it.”

“No,” her response was characteristically blunt as von Draken turned on her heels. “I’m burning whatever I find here.”

She walked away after her agents without a backwards look. Godwyn did not follow her. There would be no persuading her; Tanya von Draken was not known to be open minded. If you couldn’t work with her, then you had to work around her.

The assassins approached in silence as Godwyn motioned for Mercy and Zero to attend her.

“Find a man who is alone and bring him to me,” she instructed the long-limbed women. “Be discrete. We’re leaving as soon as you have him.”

Not bothering to inform Inquisitor von Draken, Godwyn descended the metal steps and walked back alone out to the rain-filled alley. Tanner was still waiting where she’d left him, and he hopped to open the door the moment he saw her approach.

“Where to, ma’am?” he asked politely, jumping back behind the wheel as soon as the dripping Inquisitor was seated.

“Hold here for a moment,” she replied, running her human hand over her dripping hair and peering out the window into the night.

The cadet nodded and, eyes forward, waited in silence for further instruction. He would not have to wait long, for mere moments later the unmistakably lithe silhouettes of the assassins appeared from inside the target building and started striding towards the the car. A dwarfed struggled haplessly in the grip of one, while the other – hand resting on sword hilt – brought up the rear.

Godwyn opened the door, and Mercy deftly guided a struggling man inside before gently stepping in after him with one hand still covering his mouth while the second wrapped around his chest to pin his arms to his sides – she looked mildly pleased with her catch. Zero entered behind her, sword first, and closed the door.

“Alright Tanner,” Godwyn instructed the cadet, “take us home.”

[Taranis]

Good stuff. I like the pace and content alot, and especially the description of the scenes. I'm looking forward to the rest of the story. A potential sentient/civilized/intelligent xenos! Good stuff!

I'm always hungry for updates, but I'm happy to wait for this any day. :(

[Lady_Canoness]

Very cool Taranis. I'll try not to have any more month-long waits in store for you guys :)

[Aqui]

After yet another crappy day.......

 

Lady C is in the Hoooooooooooooouse! :)

[Lady_Canoness]

After yet another crappy day.......

 

Lady C is in the Hoooooooooooooouse! :)

 

Thanks mate. Glad to hear your day got less crappy :)

[Brother-Sergeant Bohemond]

ahhh, the one day I dont check this forum: you post an update! thats it, im tracking the topic ;)

 

Im currently reading Abnett's Eisenhorn (first time for me) and I keep thinking back to this, and I have to say, The Inquisition is definetly on par with Eisenhorn, why they have turned you down, is a real mystery. They should be publishing your work! Both Eisenhorn and Godwyn are awesome and I reckon the two of them would make an epic team, to be honest.

 

anyway, now Ive flattered you and yours, im off to read the update ;)

 

Edit: ok, ive now read it, and I have to say, yet again you have me in suspense! Im guessing that the next guy is a replacement savant? (unless I missed him/her). I also think that this Arbites lad will die...which is shame, he has a bright future until you write him out :lol:

[Lady_Canoness]

Well thank you, Bohemond - consider me duly flattered! (Good thing you don't live near here, or I would probably have you over for dinner round-about now ;) )

 

Aaaanyway, Eisenhorn is a good read, and I'm tickled that you think my work is on par with that.

 

You certainly do see death around every corner though! Soon you will have labelled every character for death and I will feel right awkward about actually killing one of them!

[Brother-Sergeant Bohemond]

maybe you wont kill them then and I shall be happy! ;)

 

(I like steak btw ;))

[Lady_Canoness]

Hot of the presses (meaning there may well be typos inside B) ) comes part 5 of the Inquisition IV! We get to meet the last member of Godwyn's crew this time. Who will it be? Read on to find out!

 

--------------------------

 

*Part 5*

 

Maxwell Constantine was waiting as the elevator doors slid open and admitted Cassandra Godwyn into the penthouse foyer.

“Inquisitor,” he bowed his head politely, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet as he addressed his superior.

“You have something to tell me?” she asked. She was alone, having instructed Mercy and Zero to take their captive to a more secluded area down in one of the store rooms beneath the garage. Sound-proof concrete walls would ensure their privacy, and any mess would be easier to clean up if she decided to execute him.

Oblivious to the Inquisitor’s inner thoughts, Constantine fell in beside her as she walked from the foyer into the rest of the suite. “Yes ma’am,” he said, walking smartly in time with the Inquisitor’s strides. “Two communiqués while you were out: one marked Inquisition low-priority that arrived about twenty minutes ago…”

Godwyn nodded – likely von Draken was disgruntled by her leaving. “You can forward that to me,” she responded and accepted that dataslate he handed to her, though she did not bother to look at it before pocketing it in her jacket. “And the other?”

“A message from the Patroclus,” Constantine continued, producing a second dataslate for the Inquisitor; “Ship Master Columbo wishes to inform you that he has arrived in orbit.”

That was something Godwyn had not expected to hear. “Really?” she arched an eyebrow and took the dataslate for closer examination. “He’s early.”

“Indeed,” Constantine agreed, quickly scratching at his blond moustache with a single finger before retreating his hands back behind his back, “forty-eight hours early, to be exact.”

Godwyn smiled. It was good news at least, as she always enjoyed seeing her old friend again. She’d known Hercule Columbo for more than thirty years now, though she still remembered the day they met like it was just last week. He was like family to her – much closer than anyone related to her on this world – and was one of the few people alive that she felt she could trust. He would be close to two-hundred years old now – a mind boggling thought when she consider how short her own life felt in comparison – it was almost humourous that they could still stand one-another after all this time, as Emperor-knows they both had their moments of being completely insufferable.

“Inquisitor…?” Seeing the look on Godwyn’s face, the young logistician was in no hurry to interrupt.

“Continue,” she told him, her manner abrupt, and the smile fading from her face as she walked.

“He will be ready to send a shuttle down in three hours time,” Constantine resumed, “he has asked for landing coordinates.”

“This city’s space port will be adequate.”

“As you wish, ma’am.”

“Also,” Godwyn turned to meet his eye, “I would like you and Stone to be there when the shuttle touches down.”

“Of course, ma’am.”

“This is my Interrogator who is arriving. I trust you know what that means?”

“I do, ma’am.”

“Good,” she seemed pleased, “then carry-on with your business, Constantine.”

“As you wish, ma’am,” he snapped his heels together at attention, pivoted on the spot to resume working on the dozen other duties he had waiting for him.

“Maxwell.”

He had not gotten very far when the Inquisitor summoned him again. “Ma’am?”

She had stopped walking, and was standing upright where he had left her. “Two things.”

“Of course.”

“First,” she held up one human finger, “make sure a bottle of cognac goes back up with the shuttle. Columbo will know what it is for.”

“Absolutely.”

“Second,” another finger went up, “this isn’t the Imperial Navy. Don’t call me ‘ma’am’ and don’t stand to attention.”

Constantine flushed, but managed to retain his composure. “Yes… sorry. I won’t.”

The Inquisitor cracked a rare grin in his direction:

“Good,” she said, and carried on her way.

 

* *

 

Ten minutes later, the Inquisitor arrived in the damp, narrow corridors that burrowed beneath the garage far from the early dawn’s light as it crept through the rain-clouds high above in the unseen sky. It was cold, and the moisture bit deep until it chilled skin and bone, hanging in the air like an invisible fog that deadened every sound.

Not a pleasant place.

Mercy and Zero were waiting for her outside the rust-streaked door to one of the many store rooms buried underground – their heads bowed and their backs bent under the low ceiling – and stirred as she approached.

“Has he said anything?” Godwyn asked, looking from one to the other as she stopped outside the closed door.

“He has said nothing,” Zero replied on behalf of her silent sister, her golden eyes twinkling the dim light as her platinum hair stuck to her scalp in the cold, wet air. Mercy seemed to agree; her body swaying from foot to foot as she watched the others in silence.

The Inquisitor stepped past them and rested the metal digits of her right hand on the door handle: “You can go back upstairs,” she said. The assassins looked at one another as if forming a silent consensus through looks alone. “Get some rest,” Godwyn continued, “I’ll do this alone.”

Zero left in silence – her long frame swiftly exiting the damp tunnels – though Mercy showed no sense of urgency: she placed a long-fingered hand on Godwyn’s shoulder and squeezed softly. Their eyes met and held for a time, but then the time passed and the assassin let her go – walking away from the Inquisitor after Zero – and Godwyn opened the store room door with a grinding thud.

A cold waft of stale, musty air greeted her senses as the door swung inwards almost as if she was walking into a damp sponge. It stank of mould and left an awful taste in her mouth, but even so she closed the door behind her, and entered further into the store room without pause.

The man she’d ordered detained waited for her on a wooden chair in the centre of the room. Stopping, the Inquisitor gave him a cursory look-over: he did not stir at her presence, though his chest heaved with deep, sucking breaths. Whatever belongs he possessed at the time of his capture were displayed on a grubby metal table to the right of the door. Stepping closer – her feet scraping over the loose dirt on the rockcrete floor – Godwyn took her time examining each and every item; picking each one up between her metal fingers, turning it several times over in the dim light, before gently placing it back onto the table and moving onto the next one.

From his chair, the man strained to hear every sound.

Godwyn looked only once in his direction. Bound tightly in his seat with a damp canvas sack over his head, the prisoner could not look back, and he sucked down every last breath like it might be his last. In truth, he did not know how lucky he was, as Godwyn doubted very much that the Witch Hunter would have left anyone alive.

Crossing to the room in three strides, she ripped the bag from around the man’s head – he almost screamed in response: his chest rising and falling rapidly as he tried to strain against the ropes that cut into his wrists, ankles, and neck. Soon he realized it was futile and stopped struggling; his mouth agape and his eyes wide like a fish drowning above water.

“What is your name?” Godwyn broke the silence, standing behind her captive where he could not see her.

The man didn’t answer. He needed encouragement.

She leaned her metal hand onto his shoulder – making sure the boney metal digits captured all of his attention.

“What is your name?”

“Myron!” he squealed in a heavily accented voice. That wasn’t so hard.

Godwyn withdrew her bionic appendage. The man was still gasping like he had run a mile. “How old are you, Myron?”

“Twenty eight!”

“Do you know where you are, Myron?”

He didn’t. No-one ever did. That was the point.

Fear, Godwyn had learned, was a better motivator then pain, for while pain guaranteed a captive’s short-term cooperation its uses were limited. A captive would eventually become inured to their torture and their information would become useless. Pain dulled their senses – prevented them from thinking clearly – and thinking was exactly what she wanted her captives to do. Fear, on the other hand, was an excellent way of motivating a prisoner. They never became immune to fear, and it never clouded their judgement so completely that they became useless. It gave them a goal, because as long as they were left with the hope that everything might turn out okay in the end they had reason to keep talking – to keep thinking.

Pain shut people down, but fear opened them up.

“Lho?” Godwyn reached into her coat pocket and produced the pencil-shaped cigarette, placing it in between her captive’s lips before he could refuse. He latched onto it gladly, and waited for his captor to light it with a petrified silence.

Godwyn didn’t smoke – at least not regularly – but a case of cheap lho-sticks was one of thing’s she’d retrieved from the penthouse prior to coming down. They helped in the interrogation process as well – giving the captive the sense that the person behind him wasn’t truly his enemy and did not mean to harm him without cause.

She lit the lho-stick and and let Myron have a few desperate puffs between taking it back away from him. He watched it go like she was stealing his first-born.

It was all part of the act: answer my questions and you’ll be rewarded.

“Where are you from, Myron?” Godwyn asked next.

He licked his lips. The smoke from his brief respite was quickly vanishing into the damp darkness of the cold room. He didn’t know.

“You’re a refugee, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

His eyes were locked on the lho-stick that Godwyn held in front of him, but a cheap answer didn’t earn him a reward.

“Myron, my name is Draken,” she told him slowly, making sure her tone was passive. “I am the chief chastener of the adeptus arbites. Do you know what that means?”

He nodded.

“I am going to ask you some questions,” she continued, “and I want you to answer them with as much detail as you can. Do you understand?”

“Yeah.”

“Good,” she held the lho-stick to his lips for two more puffs before holding it away so that it was tantalizingly close. He was looking only at it, and did not see the pistol in his captor’s left hand.

“Who were the other people in that building?”

“Dunno.”

Wrong answer.

She held the gun beside his ear and fired two shots into the floor.

“There were six rounds in this handgun, now there are four,” she told him after he’d stopped screaming, her own ears still ringing from the deafening roar of gunfire in a closed environment, “the last one won’t go into the floor.”

Myron blanched. His breathing was much quicker now, and his body shook erratically within its bindings. Blood was starting to weep from where the rope had broken his skin.

“I’ll ask my question again: who were the other people in that building?”

“Please don’t kill me!! Please! Please!”

“Answer me: who were the other people in that building?”

“Uuum… uuum! They were refugees!” he replied quickly, his legs shaking uncontrollably even though every tug from his ankles pulled painfully against his wrists and neck. “Uuuum… uuuum! Families mostly! I don’t know where they all came from, but I heard it was safe there! Out of the way, see!? We didn’t want to cause any trouble! We were just trying to stay out of the way! Not hurt anyone, see!?”

He was shaking all over and twitching from side to side, though he managed to control himself just enough to suck on the lho-stick as Godwyn pressed it to his lips.

“Who told you about that place?”

“I just heard about it! Uuum… we all had!” he was scrambling trying to translate his thoughts into words.

*BANG!*

Myron screamed and loosed his bladder as a third shell casing bounced onto the floor. He was crying aloud and shaking his head furiously. “I haven’t done anything!” he wailed. “I haven’t – haven’t done anything! I’m innocent! I just want to live!!”

“Who told you about that place?” Godwyn repeated herself, not raising her voice.

“I heard it from a man!” he said between sobs. “I never knew his name! He just said it was safer there, see? That we wouldn’t have to worry about people trying to hurt us! Everyone else was going, so I went too!”

He sucked on the lho-stick like he was clinging to life, but Godwyn pulled it away after just one puff.

“What did this man look like? Was he a refugee?”

“He was – he was bald!” Myron professed. “He was a local – not a refugee! I – I think he was a priest! He – he brought us food and water… and – and would help with medicine when people got sick because of the cold! Please – please! I’m telling you all I know!”

“Did you ever speak to this man?”

Myron sobbed and wept, unable to answer.

“Myron, did you ever speak to this man?”

“Yes!” he confessed. “Yes! I talked to him once or twice!”

“What did he tell you?”

“Nothing! He only ever asked me questions!”

“What kind of questions?”

He snivelled. “Where I was from. What kind of family I had. How bad things were back home… I don’t know what else!”

“Did he talk to others as well?”

“Yes!!”

Godwyn placed the lho-stick back in his lips and let him get all of three puff before taking it away again. The grey smoke wasn’t doing much to calm him, but he would now associate the smoke with his reward, and the gunshot with his punishment. He would try very hard to earn a reward.

“Where did he come from? Where did he live?”

“I don’t know! He – he never talked about it and I never asked! But – but, he was a priest! I know he was a priest!”

“How do you know he was a priest?”

“He’d – he’d bless us!”

“How did he bless you?”

“I… I don’t know!”

Whatever urine was left in the man’s bladder quickly streamed onto the floor as the Inquisitor’s heavy pistol roared next to his head for the fourth time.

“Answer my questions, Myron: how did he bless you?”

“He’d just talk!” the man replied, tears flowing down his face as the pool of uring underneath his chair expanded in a puddle across the floor.

“Did he offer you anything?”

“No! No! He only ever spoke, see!?”

He was telling the truth, Godwyn reasoned, and the fear was making him more and more intense as he wracked his brain for answers to her questions. She wouldn’t shoot him – that would be a wasted opportunity – but he didn’t need to know that.

“How many people did he speak to?” she continued.

“Everyone!” Myron nearly shouted above choking sobs. “Everyone! Everyone!”

“Was there anyone he was really close to? That he spoke to more than others?”

“I think so, yes! He – he would spend different amounts of time with everyone, see!?”

“And who did he spend the most time with?”

“I – I… I don’t know that! Please – I wasn’t paying that much attention! I didn’t think it was important! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, just please let me live!”

Godwyn passed him the lho-stick and left it between his lips where he sucked it like an infant on a teat – only to spit it out when the gun exploded beside his head and set him screaming in fear all over again. He could count – that was five shots – and the next one would be for him:

“Please! Please! Oh Emperor – I didn’t do anything! Please let me live…!” He started to blubber – his whole body shaking in fear as the ropes cut deeper into his skin.

Godwyn didn’t answer. Her pistol was pointed at the back of his head with one bullet resting in the chamber. She didn’t pull the trigger, however, and thumped him over the head with it instead – silencing his cries as well as if she’d shot him.

The room was suddenly very, very quiet.

Godwyn reach for her comm. unit; “Constantine,” she said softly, “send Meredith to me. Tell her to bring her tools and the surveillance kit I gave her…”

 

*

 

Myron was of no use dead – Draken had killed enough to make that apparent – but at the same time he did not know enough for a prolonged interrogation to bare fruit. The only use that remained was in letting him go.

“How long will this take?”

Looking up from her work, Meredith shrugged. “Seconds,” she replied, and continued to prod at the bloody welt on the captive’s scalp from where Godwyn had struck him. She was inserting a small tracking device under the skin and activating it. It was not proven technology, but what really was? Starships plied the void between the stars on a half-known science, while robed priests whispered to an absent god in order to keep the cogs turning. How far did a technology need to be proved before it could be used? In all likelihood the tracking device being imperfectly installed in the man’s head would kill him, but every human was already dead anyway. What did it matter?

“Test it,” Godwyn instructed.

Meredith did what she was told, and seconds later Constantine confirmed that the signal was received high above them in the penthouse. It would do.

Myron had nothing to live for. That was why Godwyn had chosen him. He had no family, no wife or child, and no future – making him a perfect candidate for recruitment from whatever was behind the heresy occurring here on Acre: young and with nothing to lose. Being a perfect profile did not guarantee him success, however, and there was a good chance that he would die by some stroke of fate within days of Godwyn letting him go, but the slim chance that he could be picked up by whatever lurked unseen in the city made the risk worthwhile.

This priest – the one he had spoken about – was likely the face of this unseen malice, this enemy, if indeed such an enemy existed.

The hydra’s heart, so to speak.

Chilled by his interrogation, Myron would hopefully seek this man out, and, after learning of the fate of the other refugees he had been with, direct his anger towards the identity of the ones he thought responsible for this crime: the adeptus arbites and the unseen woman named ‘Draken.’ An enemy was always easier to fight when one could see its face, and, instead of groping in the shadows looking for dens of deviants to burn, Godwyn hoped that she could bring the deviants into the open, though if that failed she could at least trace his movements.

It was a long-shot but better than nothing, and, like the Witch Hunter’s purges, it was something she was more than willing to repeat.

“Alright, done,” Meredith slapped her hands together as if to shake the blood from her gloves. “He’ll wake up with one hell of a headache in a couple of hours.”

“Good,” the Inquisitor was satisfied, “have him dumped near to where he was picked up.”

The doctor chuckled: “This is my kind of medicine,” she said with a grin; “Always hated long-term care.”

 

* * *

 

Maxwell Constantine was up and in the car with Stone by mid-morning after only a few short hours sleep. That was the normal pace of things now that he was with the Inquisition. No rotations here, just grabbing your forty winks while you could and working around the clock the rest of the time. It wasn’t bad and he wasn’t complaining, though he could have asked for better weather. Outside the car it was still raining; was it really going to keep up for five more months?

Stone was in the front seat, head back and eyes shut with his shotgun resting across his lap. He was fully kitted out with ammo, frags, and armour like he was riding into a warzone – a stark contrast to Constantine, who, other than the navy issues sabre at his side, would have blended in perfectly with the merchant elite, or Tanner, the cadet chauffer in a uniform so sharp that it looked brand new.

Looking in the rear-view, Tanner caught the logistician’s eye.

“How much farther?” Constantine asked, providing himself with an excuse to be looking at the boy.

“About five minutes, sir.”

Constantine turned his attention back out the window to where the rain kept falling. There were a lot of people out there, and while some kept busy going to and fro through their daily lives, it was hard not to notice those that loitered in the background. Refugees.

Constantine turned away.

That was an often overlooked perk of being in the Navy: you spent so much time aboard starships and space stations that you really didn’t have to associate yourself with every day misery. In time he would learn to tune it out – just like tuning out the smell of recycled air the first time you set foot aboard a starship – but part of him didn’t want to. Human beings, just like everyone else; it was because of them that things like the Imperial Navy existed, and it was for their survival that countless men and women died in battle every day. Humanity seemed so precious at times, and so worthless at others. How easy it is to ignore a human life.

“Sir?” Tanner’s eyes were looking at him again through the rearview. “We’re here.”

 

The sleek black car pulled through the space-ports front gate and passed the numerous arbites patrols without stopping. There were refugees here as well, and the white armoured arbites enforcers seemed to have their hands full with controlling them. Quite a few arrests were being made. Every so often a black armoured trooper would be spotted amongst them, quietly overseeing the commotion.

“It’s like a f***ing plague,” Stone growled, awake since they’d entered the space port and back to looking pissed off. “The city is in no way ready to handle this many people, but they just keep on coming anyway.” It was as if he thought they had a choice in the matter.

“Private bay B-26,” Constantine told the cadet driver, making sure that Stone knew he was being ignored, “that is where we are supposed to go for pick up.”

“Yes sir,” Tanner replied, already en route to the private bays well before Constantine had spoken up.

Private bays were far away from the human chaos of the commercial landing zones and were typically reserved for wealthy traders and dignitaries. Security was tight, but the arbites dignitary vehicle was waved through without inspection

“Know anything about the person we’re picking up?” the Mordian asked from the front seat, keeping his eyes on the roadsides now that they were free from the crowds.

“No,” Constantine shook his head, scrolling through several dataslates that he’d brought with him just in case and making sure that the cognac was still upright on the floor. “I’ll need to create a personnel file for him or her on the way back.”

Stone grunted his approval.

Outside the car, the painted numbers were already in the B-20s.

“Here we are…” they’d just pulled up to B-26, and Constantine looked out the window as Tanner eased them to the roadside.

The shuttle had already touched down, but the landing bay was deserted save for a single figure in an olive coloured cloak who was standing with a couple of large bags out of the rain. The moment the figure spotted them, it picked up its things and started striding towards the car.

Constantine and Stone dismounted and opened the doors.

“Welcome to Acre,” Constantine had to call loudly through the rain as he approached the figure.

Hood up to shield its face, the stranger did not reply but thrust one of the two bags in the logistician’s direction. “Could you take this for me?” it said in a distinctly female voice.

“Certainly,” Maxwell took the bag, but nearly dropped it as the woman let go – it weighed a tonne. Stone took it from him, and heaved it into the car’s trunk. The woman in the green cloak went around to the other side of the car with her remaining bag and opened the door. Seeing there was nothing left to be done, Constantine passed the bottle of cognac off to Stone and got back into the car.

Even with her cloak, the woman had gotten soaked waiting while waiting for them and was running her gloved hands back and forth through her mousey brown hair.

“My name is Maxwell Constantine,” Constantine introduced himself, closing the door behind him and proffering a hand for the woman in green to shake.

Finishing with her hair, the woman looked up and took the offered hand. “A pleasure,” she said.

Constantine tried to smile, but found himself distracted by the large black spider tattooed on the right side of her face.

 

-------------------------

 

Surprised? B)

[Brother-Sergeant Bohemond]

you sneaky person! Spider!

 

How is it you always manage to surprise me? lol I thought through soo many people. And as her Interrogator? I hope she has learned to control her powers now :D

[Lady_Canoness]

Spider had too much going for her to be let go that easily. Just like everyone else, she's changed in some ways, and stayed the same in others. We'll see where this story takes her ^_^

[Aqui]

Spider had too much going for her to be let go that easily. Just like everyone else, she's changed in some ways, and stayed the same in others. We'll see where this story takes her <_<

 

I had wondered what became of her. A latent psyker like her is too much of an asset to lose to someone else, although I'm wondering what will happen when Godwyn finds out about certain events in Inquisitor III....

[Olis]

Stone rolled his eyes. He was a Mordian, and that pretty much said it all. Ex-Steel Legion, he was built big and tall with a face like one of those grim war statues.

 

I think that should be Iron Guard, rather than Steel Legion, LC. The Steel Legion are from Armageddon. ;)

[Azekai]

Huzzah. I was just thinking to myself the other day- ''Self, why did Lady Canoness include Spider? All she did was kill Nerf then disappear."

 

Foolish of me to have such little faith.

[Lady_Canoness]

Stone rolled his eyes. He was a Mordian, and that pretty much said it all. Ex-Steel Legion, he was built big and tall with a face like one of those grim war statues.

 

I think that should be Iron Guard, rather than Steel Legion, LC. The Steel Legion are from Armageddon. :blink:

 

Good Catch. Iron - Steel, Guard - Legion... got 'em mixed up I did ;)

 

No way I was letting Spider go that easily, but I did want to make you guess for a while :lol:

[Brother-Sergeant Bohemond]

Stone rolled his eyes. He was a Mordian, and that pretty much said it all. Ex-Steel Legion, he was built big and tall with a face like one of those grim war statues.

 

I think that should be Iron Guard, rather than Steel Legion, LC. The Steel Legion are from Armageddon. :P

 

bah, cannot believe I did not pick up on this!

[Chapter Master Onyxius]

As always love your work, great motivator to start writing my own short stories!!! Keep it up and Black Library will want to publish this.

[Lady_Canoness]

On this, the 24th year since the day of my birth, comes part 6 of the Inquisition IV.

 

Happy Birthday to me! Here is your present!

 

____________________

 

*Part 6*

 

“The Master will be delighted to see you again, Mistress Godwyn,” the manservant stooped in a low bow so that his eyes looked at the carpet as the Inquisitor stepped from the turbo lift into a wide corridor lined with rich tapestries of exotic origin; “We sincerely wish you a pleasant stay, as always.”

The lift doors closed with the manservant still inside, and Inquisitor Godwyn was left alone in the calm tranquility of the twelfth deck. No one was around and not a sound could be heard other than the soft padding footfalls as her polished boots traversed the plush velvet floor. She walked with purpose but without urgency; she had been here before and knew the way. This was Master’s deck of the Patroclus, and the home of a very old friend.

“My dear Cassandra!” Hercule Columbo greeted her warmly as she pushed open the door to the seigneurie with a barely audible click. Striding towards her with his arms outstretched in welcome they embraced, and, taking her hands in his, the Ship Master kissed her on both cheeks before entreating upon her to join him, and Cassandra let herself be guided to the center chamber where a table had been lavishly set for two.

“How long has it been?” she asked, once he had seated her and taken his place opposite the Inquisitor. “Four, maybe fiver years?”

“Too long, dare I say,” her dear friend replied, easing into his chair across the candle-lit table, and at once – just as the words left his mouth and lasting no more than a second – Hercule Columbo looked old. He was old, of course – more than three times her own age, and she no longer felt young – but in the ambient light of the chandeliers it seemed as if his years caught up to him all at once. Fortunately, the look quickly passed, and the Ship Master was smiling once again; “though there was not a day that passed that I did not think of you.”

They smiled as friends. “That is kind of you to say,” Cassandra replied, “though I know it isn’t true.”

Columbo, for his part, was comically mortified, and it was to the sound of laughter that the first train of servants entered the seigneurie to attend to their master and his guest.

Hercule Columbo was a rogue trader – one of many ship masters who plied the stars without guild or contract, drawing their own success from their own rules, and taking a chance on fortune smiling their way. Many such men and women failed or fell along the way – what is left of their ships now sitting in an impound yard, blasted into scrap, or in the hands of villainous pirate lords – but a few did succeed, and some succeeded more than others.

Hercule Columbo was one such man.

He did not commandeer a trader fleet, nor did he owe his wealth to a single windfall, but his success was measured in always having a job no matter where he went, and always making sure his client paid for, and received, the best. Having the Inquisition covering his operating costs for the past four decades didn’t hurt either, and was one of several reasons why Godwyn was always welcomed like royalty aboard the trader’s ship.

“You know, I was contacted by a mutual friend of ours not that long ago…” Columbo told his guest once the usual pleasantries and small-talk, as well as the main course, was concluded.

Placing her glass of merlot back on the table with her left hand, Godwyn looked up at him inquisitively, waiting for him to continue.

“Jaquobime Duroi,” he said.

Her lips curled at the name, but Godwyn quickly hid her distaste behind the wine glass, though not quick enough as Columbo grunted in agreement – his own drink in hand.

“I wouldn’t call him a ‘friend’,” she said, remaining tactful as to not spoil what had been a pleasant meal.

“I would call him a letch,” the trader corrected her, and Godwyn quickly agreed, “though letch or no, you left your mark with him, and I can confirm – as well as several of your colleagues, I imagine – that his dealings are all strictly above-board, and that the trade in xeno artefacts has taken a sudden downturn around Erebus Station,” he dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a laced serviette, “and that his personal fortune has somewhat increased recently. He even sent you a gift – you must remind me to give it to you.”

Godwyn rolled her eyes with a groan, but Columbo chuckled – a wide grin sticking to his face;

“Like me, he seems to have come to the conclusion that working with the Inquisition is a sound business decision.”

“Really?” Godwyn shook her head in an amiable fashion, “that’s the truth why you put up with me all these years?” She sighed, helping herself to the remainder of her wine confident that it would soon be replenished. “And here I thought we meant something to one another…”

“Pish-posh!” Columbo blew her off with a thespian’s comedic flair. “I am using you to the full extent of which I am able!”

She laughed and he clapped his hands – the second train of servants arriving to replenish their drinks and present dessert.

“How was Spider?” Godwyn asked, once the servants had withdrawn and she had taken her first taste of the chocolate crème gateau that had been placed before her.

Finishing his mouthful, her old friend leaned back in his seat with a pensive look on his face – his old eyes cast upwards towards the starry vista overhead. “Well…” he began, taking his time, “suffice to say she is not like you…”

That hardly came as a surprise for several reasons. She was younger, grew up afraid in the darkness of an underhive, and never knew anyone who didn’t try to take advantage of her. Also, she was a psyker.

“She’s very secretive,” Columbo continued, not meeting the Inquisitor’s eyes as he sliced a wafer-thin piece from his gateau with the edge of his fork, “very quiet. I invited her to dine with me every night of our month-long transit,” his eyes met hers, “for I will not have it said that I do not extend the same courtesy to your friends as I you…”

“But she didn’t accept?” Godwyn cut in.

Hercule shook his head. “On the contrary, she accepted my every invitation, but… well, she’s quite secretive. She wouldn’t tell me her real name, or anything about herself.”

Now it was Godwyn’s turn to appear thoughtful, and she leaned her elbows on the table to either side of her plate. “I don’t think she knows that herself.”

“What? Doesn’t even know her own name?”

“She’s had an unfortunate childhood.”

“Dear Emperor, Godwyn,” Columbo settled further back into his seat with a cautionary glance. “Are you sure she’ll make a good student? The last one you had – the young man, Alexander – he was a promising lad wasn’t he?”

Cassandra Godwyn could do little more than shrug; there were so few guarantees with people. “I sense that Spider has great potential,” she commented, “and she has made it through eight years worth of schooling in only five years. She’s come a long way – she could hardly read or write when I sent her in to the academy.”

“Did she want to join the academy, though?” the trader pressed.

“She didn’t choose either way,” Godwyn stated bluntly; “she was in no position to choose.”

Columbo did not appear reassured, but decided to drop any further questions. “Either way, she tried her best to be personable and never turned anything down once offered, though she did spend a great deal of time in her cabin.”

Playing with her wine glass, the Inquisitor spent some time in silence. “She’s got a lot to prove,” she said at last, “to herself and to me.”

 

* * *

 

Over time, Maxwell Constantine had grown accustomed to dealing with superior officers. In one way or another they were all the same. They carried themselves with an air authority that made you respect them and obey them – an air that made them *superior*. They were people worth following who led by example and conviction, and whose knowledge and wisdom made them worthy of their commands.

Maxwell’s father had been such a leader, but this new woman who claimed to be the Inquisitor’s second? She didn’t look the part.

To start, she was young – early to mid-twenties at most – younger than Constantine. How much life had she lived? What had she done to earn her command and the respect that came with it?

Then there were the tattoos. Maxwell had never liked tattoos. To him they were a sign of disrespect and a lack of discipline, and to have one on one’s face? He shuddered at the thought; it made her look almost tribal.

Lastly came her comportment.

“This is the penthouse, our base of operations planetside” Constantine explained, leading the new Interrogator from the elevator with Stone following along behind. “If you would follow me, I can give you a tour of where everything is.”

“No thanks,” the woman with the spider tattoo declined his offer, and, with her two bags in hand, stepped past the logistician in the general direction of the bedrooms. “I’ll figure it out for myself later.”

She kept going, leaving Constantine standing lost for words in the foyer. Behind him, Stone had a hard look on his face. “Loosen up a little,” he said, nudging him the ribs as soon as the Interrogator was out of earshot; “You Navy boys need to stop taking things so personally.”

A Mordian telling him to loosen up? The irony was almost staggering.

Constantine didn’t worry about it for long. The young woman – she said her name was ‘Spider’ – was only a second in command. Inquisitor Godwyn was the real person calling the shots, and he had no qualms about following her: she’d earned it. He’d follow her orders to the letter until she told him to stop, and at present his orders were to stay on the captive’s signal and report on its movements.

It wasn’t exactly thrilling work.

After knocking the captured refugee out cold, they’d dumped him in the back streets of the industrial sector, and that’s where he stayed for the first forty minutes. The tracking device embedded in his scalp transmitted location, however, and location alone, meaning that once he moving the real work began. Working with two different maps of the city grid, Constantine checked and double checked every step the tracker recorded and tried to make a working estimate of where he was going. The man would be in a lot of pain, the logistician imagined, though he hoped for the sake of the operation that he wasn’t too distracted and could still provide some good intelligence. There was also a real possibility that the tracking device would be discovered if he started to pick at his wound – that would effectively put an end to things right there. Several times Constantine thought he had when the trace stopped moving, but just when he was ready to call it off the trail would pick up again – the poor refugee stumbling a little further onward through the cold and the rain. Could be he was just tired.

Four hours later it was still the same story: not thrilling work.

 

“How’s our little experiment going?” Meredith pulled up a seat beside him and plunked a steaming mug of black caffeine down by his arm. She had another one cupped in her small hands as her eyes were drawn intently towards the screen.

“I suppose things could be going worse,” Constantine confessed with something between a moan and a sigh.

The doctor nodded knowingly. “Yup, you could be sitting in a puddle of pee.”

Mug halfway raised to his mouth, Constantine turned a raised eyebrow in her direction. Meredith was still looking at the screen, nodding silently to herself as she did so. Odd though she was, she certainly knew how to brew a good cup of caffeine. He raised it to his lips – the edges of his moustache just dabbing the brimming surface – and loosed a satisfied groan. Perfect as usual.

“So what do you think of our new addition?” the doctor asked, head still nodding away like she was constantly agreeing with herself.

Tired, he shrugged: he’d been up for at least the past thirty hours. “Haven’t given her much thought.”

“Tight little number though, isn’t she?”

Looking over his shoulder, Constantine cast a disgusted look in her direction. “Excuse me?” he asked.

“Eh, don’t worry about it,” Meredith appeared genuinely innocent and continued to watch the display now that the logistician had focused his attention on her. After a few seconds, however, she met his eyes. “What? Really, you shouldn’t worry about it. Though you should be watching your screens.”

“What do you…?” he turned back to his monitor and his eyes grew wide. He knew what she meant. “Oh s***.”

The mark was moving erratically, moving at high speed with rapid turns that made it hard to follow.

“Looks like he’s scared,” Meredith commented mirthlessly, taking a sip from her caffeine as she did so. “How about that?”

Scared didn’t really fit the bill. More like terrified.

“Could be he’s seen something,” Constantine took a wild guess. “Let’s see where he goes…”

Adrenaline would only last him so long, and after a minute or so of running the marker came to a shaky stop. Constantine checked his city maps. “He’s stopped at the Lancaster building,” he noted, double-checking a map of the industrial zones just to be sure, “the very place where he was picked up…”

“What a coincidence, huh?” Meredith was nodding along to her own rhythm again, but Maxwell Constantine wasn’t so sure. He shook his head:

“No,” he said, “I don’t think it is.”

The building – labelled T-building by the Inquisitor, standing for ‘target building’ – was just one of dozens of empty industrial buildings standing in that zone of the city. It could be no coincidence that the refugee returned to the scene of an Inquisitorial purge.

“I should report this to the Inquisitor.”

“And what will you say?”

The sound of Spider’s voice surprised him, and he span around in his seat to see the young woman standing quietly over his shoulder. How long had she been listening in?

Meredith sipped her coffee as if Spider’s sudden and silent appearance was nothing unusual.

“I’m sorry?” Constantine blurted – the only thing he could think of with the Interrogator standing over him.

She was looking at him with arms crossed. The spider’s legs stretched into the middle of her face. She had not removed her green cloak, but she had taken off her gloves and there were tattoos on her hands also, though Constantine didn’t look long enough to make any of them out.

“You want to report something. So report it.”

“I should report to Godwyn,” he corrected, turning his body more squarely in her direction now that the surprise of her appearance had worn off.

“Inquisitor Godwyn is still in orbit,” she told him. “You’ll report to me in her absence.” Her voice was cold to the point of being empty, but without malice. It was the kind of voice that talked of a scarred mind – the kind of voice that Maxwell had only ever heard before when speaking to campaign veterans. It was chilling, but at the same time aggravating: it sounded condescending coming from her lips.

Saying that he didn’t like talking to her would be an understatement.

“Very well,” he said. “The mark has returned to T-building. I think it significant and worth investigating.”

“Why?” she asked this as if she were testing him.

“Because my standing orders are to report on anything unusual. I think his returning to where he was picked up falls into that category.”

The Interrogator did not looked convinced, but just as he thought she was going continue her line of questioning she surprised him by agreeing: “Okay,” she said, “we’ll go check it out. Get your things.”

“That’s it?” Constantine asked, taken aback.

“Yes,” she nodded, “that’s it. Doctor, you will come too.”

Meredith didn’t argue – just finished her caffeine and gave a ‘How about it?’ look in Constantine’s direction.

 

* * *

 

There were four of them in the car when it pulled out onto the rain-filled streets. Tanner and the doctor were up front, both of them silent with the constant clicking of the windshield wipers being the only sound, with Constantine occupying the back seat facing the Interrogator. She’d brought the smaller of her two satchels with her and had it lain across her lap to adjust the fittings. The man across from her looked agitated and was fiddling with his moustache between thumb and fore-finger.

“If I may enquire, Interrogator, what are our objectives in this sortie?” he asked.

Tightening the straps, the Interrogator stood the satchel upright on her lap and undid the zipper. “Firsthand intelligence,” she replied without looking in his direction.

The answer was deliberately curt, so Constantine left it at that.

Not paying him any further attention, the woman with the spider tattoo pulled a worn auto-carbine from the satchel and placed it on her knees. It was bullpup configuration with the magazine fixed behind the handle and fore-grip, and the housing was coloured a dull green. The weapon had a rough but rugged look to it – as if it had seen a lot of action and withstood the test of time – making it all the more peculiar how the young woman’s inked hands moved over it with familiar ease.

She loaded the chamber then set it beside her; her eyes falling suddenly on Constantine in an accusing stare.

“A fine weapon,” he said almost defensively. The Interrogator said nothing and he let it slide – looking out the window instead. She was acting like a child and it annoyed him. If she was really worthy of her command she’d be more comfortable in it.

Twenty minutes passed in silence.

“We’re nearly there,” Tanner announced from the front, followed by a quick glance in the rear-view to see if they’d heard.

“Is our mark still at the T-building?” the Interrogator asked, looking at Constantine.

By now the logistician had synched his penthouse communication console with that of the motorcar. “Yes, it appears the mark is still on site,” he replied. “Suggested course of action?”

Spider did not answer, but peeled off her cloak and balled it up on the seat beside her.

Still, Constantine went without a reply.

She wore black – a black shirt, black cravat, black pants, and black boots – and over her hands she was tugging on black gloves. The carbine went over her shoulder, and she tightened the straps so that it would not slip.

“Stop the car,” she said, and Tanner did as he was told – the vehicle skidding to a halt through the puddles of a deserted street.

A hand on the door, the Interrogator addressed the driver: “Stay within three minutes distance of this place and keep moving.” Her instructions given, the young woman with the spider tattoo opened the door and step out into the rain, slamming it shut behind her.

Meredith, Tanner, and Constantine watched her go, then looked at each other.

“Well,” Constantine snapped, “do as she says!”

 

*

 

The rain came down in sheets as Spider walked briskly away from the black arbites car. She did not look back, but sensed it moving away – the engine’s purr hardly audible over the torrent of raindrops slamming the cracked pavement.

Within twenty seconds she was soaked and her clothing clung to her skin and she had to wipe locks of her brown hair out of her eyes and behind her ear. She kept walking and as she did so a memory started to form, though she quickly pushed it aside as her training took over. She could feel the buildings around her, feel the metal and the stone, feel the essence of the water in the air…

Welcoming her second sight, she caught a glimpse of a haggard man with a bleeding head running ahead of her.

Her pace shifted into a jog.

The streets were empty, but the image of the frantically running man led her to the door of the T-building – the same place the Inquisitor had been the night before.

She slowed to a stop, once again wiping her hair from her face, and peered towards the door. It showed signs of being forced open, but had recently been shut. Stepping closer through the rain, she laid a hand on it: no way was it going to open again; her quarry hadn’t entered this way.

She stepped back and continued on her way. The silent buildings rose up around her like the walls of a canyon and her boots sloshed through pools of rainwater. She was starting to shiver.

The man had continued on this way, running blindly through the rain, and ducked into a small alcove. Picking up the pace, Spider ran after him.

The alcove turned into a narrow alley hardly wide enough for two people and was cluttered with garbage and debris and overflowing with water up to her shins. There was a door here also – rusted and ancient looking – but she sensed it would not open. She pressed on.

Up ahead was a ladder that she hastily climbed to a secondary, flat roof. Her boots crunched across the gravel, but the crash of the rain covered her movements. An after-image of the man ran before her – his very footsteps stretching out before hers – until he disappeared into a broken window at the building’s side. She followed him there and peered through, but it was dark, and the water in her eyes made it hard to see. Feeling her hands around the window frame and dislodging any shards of glass she found there, Spider ducked her head inside.

It looked – and stank – like a latrine, and five feet beneath her was a very soiled toilet.

Gasping for a breath of fresh air, she pulled her head back out and wiped her hand across her face. Everything outside was cold, wet, and grey. Unfastening her carbine from around her shoulders, she took another couple deep breaths and ducked back into the window – gingerly clambering through one limb at a time until the majority of her body was through. Cold and shivering, however, she miscalculated her step and fell into the side of the stall – banging her shin against the dirty toilet bowl – and landing with a splash into the inch-deep pool of grimy water gathering on the latrine floor. The echo sounded painfully loud, and, on her knees, Spider waited with nary a breath for someone to come bursting in to find her.

Ten seconds passed. Then twenty. Nothing came. Rising slowly to her feet, she crept from the open stall door.

The latrine, and likely the rest of the building, had been out of service for years, and strings of sh*t, urine, and other unspeakable human waste caked every surface with grime and turned the pooling rainwater a sickly brown. The smell was unbearable. She’d likely have to burn her clothes and bathe in scented oil if she ever wanted to feel clean again. The further she went from the windows, the darker it became until she had to grope along the walls to find her way out.

Eventually she found the door – it was lying on the floor separate from its frame – and peeked out into a long, wide corridor that ended in a large opening likely to an antechamber. Standing up straight, she fastened the carbine tightly across her back. Her mark had come this way, on hands and knees, running – stumbling – forward.

She was about to follow him when she suddenly froze, hearing the danger before she sensed it.

Footsteps, the click of nails against a metal floor, and heavy laboured breathing that bubbled through a wet mouth.

Lowering herself to a crouch in the damp darkness, Spider drew the foot-long blade of a Catachan fighting knife from its sheath and held it close to her side. Steadying her nerves, she held her breath and waited.

The breathing became louder – rattling through a wide, gasping mouth – but, just as she was sure it was about to pass her by unnoticed, a three-hundred pound mastiff turned the corner and lunged in a single motion. Her knife was up in an instant, but the terrific force of the dog crashed her to the floor and jarred her bones. No mere stray, the Gregorian Mastiff was a guard dog bred for the kill, and a body of muscle and sinew pinned the Interrogator to the floor as jaws powerful enough to splinter bone snapped inches from her face.

Instinct took over as Spider frantically kicked and thrashed under the weight of the animal. Hot blood covered her chest and arms, but it was not her blood and she felt no pain as the dog went limp and she dragged herself free through the muck. Gasping and shaking, she was surprised to be alive when she rose to her feet.

The dog was dead. Twelve inches of Catachan steel had met its throat as it lunged – the razor edge blade nearly decapitating it with the force of its own charge.

A dog like that wouldn’t be alone, but nothing came in response to its death, and as Spider retrieved her weapon from the beast’s blood-soaked corpse she heard nothing aside from the rain falling outside the window and the hammering of her heart deep within her chest. Water sloshing around her feet, she stepped over the dog and out the doorway into the hall.

She sensed a presence further down the corridor and heard voices when she reached the antechamber. Her mark had come this far, but after that she lost him in a flurry of motion that she could not hope to penetrate.

Sinking to a crouch, she loosened the straps on her carbine and crept forward on all fours until she could see the faint glow of an electric torch reflecting off the water that covered the ground several floors below. There were men somewhere down there – she could feel them as well as hear them speaking – but when she got to the edge of a rail that overlooked the chamber she couldn’t make anyone out through the darkness. It sounded like they numbered three or four – at least that many were speaking – but the echoes distorted their words to the point that she had trouble discerning anything through the jumble of sound. It was conversational at least – no shouting or cursing – but that was about all could make out.

Sticking to the shadows, she watched and waited.

People had obviously lived here at one point, and everywhere around her were traces of their passing. Garbage, spent clothing, personal effects: all of it spoke of desperate living… and a desperate flight. Refugees no doubt, but had the authorities driven them all out?

She thought about this for while, but pushed it from her mind when she spotted movement through the gloom. Covering her face with the fingers of her gloved hand, she watched as two men with a leashed mastiff walked casually around the edge of the room in deep conversation. They were three stories beneath her, but from what she could see both were of a husky build with perfectly shaven heads, and, judging from the size of the dog with them, they both likely weighed in excess of two-hundred pounds. They were too preoccupied with whatever they were talking about to look up, however, and soon disappeared from Spider’s view, though the sound of their voices made it clear that they were moving away.

Not wishing to risk discovery, she stayed hidden for another five minutes after their voices had faded, though – just as she about to move – the four voices she’d heard before started to become clearer and she caught a few words:

“…long enough… should be leaving…” one was saying, and some of his fellows seemed to agree. “… not like they’ll find him… nothing suspicious… dead…” Laughter echoed upwards, and Spider ducked further away into her hiding spot.

She could hear the slosh of breaking water as multiple people crashed around beneath her with no attempts at stealth. Two dogs were with them, though there was a third with an empty lead – the master of the beast she’d killed. This one was looking around, but the others didn’t seem to want to wait for him.

More voices, more splashing, and then everything became silent as the group moved beyond her ability to hear them and out of the T-building.

A flash of images across her mind’s eye told her that they would not be back.

Moving from her hiding spot, Spider descended a warped metal staircase to the ground floor, and waded through knee-deep water to where she thought the men had emerged from. With the electric torch gone there was no light to see by, but as she fumbled through the dark she eventually found a trickle of light through a doorway and followed it fervently to its source.

It came from a room. Flooded to knee-height with rainwater like the rest, a single bulb burned brightly from a socket in the ceiling, and a square cement tub stood against the wall. It was filled with dark liquid, and from the doorway Spider could see that her quarry – the captive turned loose – was in it. He was dead, and the smell was atrocious.

His legs and arms dangled over the edges, and the top of his head above the brow poked up from the surface. The liquid bubbled and steamed. It was some kind of rendering fluid – a gift from the bald men, no doubt – and was slowly decomposing his remains.

Stepping up to the tub’s edge, Spider took a fist-full of his hair and pulled, but the face was already gone. Groaning with disgust she let it fall; it sank back down into the liquid with a soft *plop*. His scalp was still bloody where the tracker had been inserted and she removed it with the tip of her knife – pocketing the stained metal disk for future use.

“Constantine, are you receiving this?” she spoke into the comm. bead in her ear.

+“I am, Interrogator. Go ahead.”+

“Your lead is dead,” she said bluntly. “Come in for a pick up.”

+“Understood.”+

 

*

 

“Look, there she is. Good Emperor, she’s covered in blood!”

The passenger-side doors popped open and Constantine and Meredith stepped out into the street as they saw the drenched and blood-stained form of the Interrogator approaching. She looked like she was freezing but turned aside their offers of help and tossed her carbine, knife, and the contents of her pockets into the backseat while the doctor and logistician stood haplessly nearby in the pouring rain.

“It’s not my blood!” Spider had to shout over the sound of falling water.

Meredith didn’t seem to think that it made any difference whose blood it was that coated her clothing, while Constantine wrinkled his nose at the stench coming off her and took a couple steps back involuntarily.

“Get me my cloak,” she said.

Maxwell did as he was told, though quickly looked away as the young woman started to strip off herself naked while standing in the middle of the street. Meredith watched her with a raised eyebrow. Constantine passed her the green cloak when she asked for it, but didn’t turn around until she’d wrapped it around herself and was stepping past him into the car. Her clothing and her boots sat abandoned in a dark heap.

Within moments the car was moving again, and, free from the rain, Spider ran an ink-marked hand through her hair while the other hand clutched the front of her cloak over her shivering body.

Constantine tried not to look at her for modesty’s sake. She was wet, cold, and shaking. Even her white feet and pink toes were marked with ink. Her discomfort made her attractive, but Maxwell cursed himself for thinking it. It seemed to soften her, make her more human… more womanly. Damn his thoughts.

“Patch me through to the Inquisitor,” Spider instructed him, giving the young man reason to look at her again, and he hastened to do as he was told.

 

*

 

“Spider,” Godwyn took a step away from where she was overseeing the transfer of Duroi’s ‘gift’ from the Patroclus’ stores into the Meredian’s hold, “I trust everything is going well planetside?”

+“Your mark is dead. Murdered by a group of exclusively bald men.”+

Godwyn frowned – her eyes still watching Lee Normandy and the two deck-hands who were manoeuvring a pair of crates into the underbelly of her shuttle. It wasn’t a surprise that Myron was dead, but she had not thought that his killers would catch up to him so quickly. Whoever was behind it must be more organized than she had anticipated.

+“They had dogs with them – mastiffs. They put him in some kind of rendering fluid so that no-one would find the body.”+

“Sounds like a lot of trouble to kill a refugee, don’t you agree?”

+“I do, Inquisitor.”+

“Then you’ve done some good work,” Godwyn concluded, nodding her thanks to the deck-hands for their assistance. “We’ll speak more when I am planetside.”

+“Yes, Inquisitor.”+

[Aqui]

First off, Happy Birthday! ;)

 

Secondly, another good read, especially of what Spider has become. She seems to have become a lot calmer, and in control of her abilities. Whether or not she is in total control is anyone's guess :D